Recently, I picked up The Hot Mess Express, a ratchatastical new account, that requires in person meetings three times a week. Most of the Hot Mess Expresses are located in the the kind of neighborhoods that make you
carry a prison shank in your clutch cautiously aware of your surroundings … just in case things get real. They are also the kind of places that warrant a fake engagement ring consisting of the finest CZ money can buy.
I’ve found fake engagement rings serve dual purposes: #1 If/should you go missing the perp knows at least one person will in fact be looking for you and #2 Depending on the size of the bauble, several people and hopefully a major news source will pick up your story. A proper fake engagement ring could ultimately be the difference between having your face splashed across ABC every half hour circa Natalie Holloway OR finding your awkward driver’s license photo next to the penis pumps in The Thrifty Nickle. But I digress …
Last week, after visiting one of the aforementioned establishments and encountering a close talker who insisted on calling me “Lil Momma” I decided drinking my dinner might be in order. I headed over to the local market for bottle of Shiraz and to my chagrin who do I run into … Showtime!!!!!! (and yes all 6 of those exclamations are needed)
“Showtime,” is my
super hot/super crazy colorful ex-beau from 2010. You may recall I blogged about him and his friend “Lights, Camera … Action!” He nearly ruined an event I produced by getting completely obliterated on a bottle of Kettle One and what I now believe was a pre-cursor to bath salts. He kept referring to my very Southern, retired Army Colonel uncle as “Black Ceasar,” the 70s pimp and drug dealer. HE SAID THIS TO HIS FACE SIX TIMES!!! A drug dealer … six times… seriously. AND if that wasn’t enough, he ended the night by having a threesome with two meth head tweekers he met in the lobby whose names could have easily been “Notorious STD” and “J-No.” In short, Showtime was the reason I took a year off from dating and moved to Austin, TX.
So there I am in the middle of the wine aisle and I hear this Jersey Shore soundbite of a voice yell … “Yo, Pretty! Yo, I can’t believe it’s you.”
I couldn’t believe it was him. The last time I saw him he looked like an extra from “Real World Vegas.”
“Yo! You look amazing … and from the looks of that rock, you’re doing amazing too!! Yo, that’s like some ol’Hamptons … Old money, blood diamonds. Who’s the lucky cat?”
“Lucky cat” … what is he talking about … ohhhhhhh. I’m wearing fake engagement ring. Ok, you’re fake engaged. So who are you marrying? … A consultant … an accountant … engineer … handsome Jewish doctor?
And then it happened … “Astronaut!” I blurted out. As I was saying it I imagined those little alphabet soup letters flowing from my mouth.
“He’s an astronaut! He did good right” I smiled admiring the ring.
B*tch are you serious? An astronaut?!? You don’t even know a mechanical engineer. And you’re marrying an astronaut?
The ring, btw’s is one impressive piece of costume jewelry. Imagine if “The Great Gatsby” and Henry Winston had a fake engagement ring baby. Well, that’s what this ring looks like. It’s a vintage and obnoxiously over the top and flamboyant display of fabulosity. Sort of a more is more ring.
“Wow, an astronaut!” he said.
Crap! he caught that.
“I know right! It’s crazy … sometimes, I can’t believe it myself. It’s like who meets and astronaut? Me! That’s who.” I laughed.
“Where’d you guys meet?”
God, why does he keep asking questions … who does this?
“Craigslist! It’s true, you can pretty much find everything on there.”
“You met him on Craigslist … Like in the personals?”
“Oh God no!! I was looking for a meat grinder… obviously not for me since I don’t eat meat, but my dad is on this new diet and uhmmm …. he’s growing his on livestock and then he grinds the meat. It’s like Adkins. Anyways, he was selling his meat grinder and we just sort of found each other.”
“You know, I was actually talking to someone about a meat grinder the other day. Does he have any more?”
Is he being serious? Of course he doesn’t have any more … he’s a fake astronaut, not a professional meat grinder salesman. TF.
“You know it was his uncles. He was a professional grinder – may he rest in peace.”
May he rest in peace … with the rest of these horrible lies I just told for no apparent reason.
“Grinding, is really dangerous. He just sort of died in the line of … grinding. Yeahhhh, so we don’t really like to talk about it. Too painful.”
The only thing more painful, was me having an out of body experience listening to my elaborately insane lie. I’ve always had a pretty active imagination, but THIS … This was a whole layer of crazy I hadn’t met before.
Anyways, thank God I threw in that bit about the meat grinder because he was completely fascinated by the idea of grinding things. I saw an infomercial that night before and Presto Change-O along with that and astronaut fiances family ties I was able to get the heat off of me and possibly up sale him on growing and grinding his own livestock. Only in the South!!
We continued chatting long enough for him to introduce me to Artimis, his 6’2″ Warrior Princess girlfriend from Greece. She literally looked like his twin in drag. Meanwhile, I look like their sun-kissed chocolate baby at a meek 5’3″. So that was awesome!
“Babe, this is Pretty – she’s marrying an astronaut!”
“Wow, how’d did you guys meet?”
“Oh gosh, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you …”
I still can’t.